Chameleon (25 page)

He leaned in and ran his fingers through his goatee. “I know that can’t be easy for you, having to deal with that every day.”

It wasn’t. Yeah, I got used to it over the years, but it was never easy.

I wiped my greasy lips with a napkin. “I’m usually gone during the day anyway, but by the time I get back to the house, she’s usually passed out somewhere. Like yesterday . . . she was passed out on the kitchen floor. I had to pick her up and put her on the couch.” I sat back and added, “That happens a lot.”

Dad shook his head.

“And most of the time, when I put her down, she starts shaking her cup at me for something to drink. And not water.”

I almost mentioned the slurred words, crying, and everything else, but I was tired of even thinking about it, so I stopped. Dad must have known, because he sat in silence. His eyes were glued to the screen, and so were mine . . . at least one of them was. I needed some ice for my eye.

“You want anything?” I asked before heading to the kitchen.

“I’m good.”

I hunted through the fridge for dessert. Dang Dad, you ain’t got squat for food. Hold up . . . what’s this? Bingo! Some Neapolitan ice cream. I opened it and only strawberry was left, my favorite. I dished up a huge bowl, then grabbed the ice pack and headed into the living room.

Loud snoring assaulted my ears as I stepped into the room. Dad was passed out as the game played on. I took a sniff of his beer, squinched my nose, and shook him awake.

“Dad!”

He rubbed his eyes. “This game is putting me to sleep. Why don’t you see if there’s a movie on.”

Cool. I grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. When it comes to movies, Dad is all about science fiction. I need variety.

“Oh, man!” I said to the TV, pausing on a Bruce Lee flick as Chuck Norris got his leg broken.

“
Game of Death
! Let’s watch this!”

“I think I’ll pass,” Dad said, rubbing his eyes.

Dad had seen
Game of Death
so many times, he knew it word for word just like I did. It was one of my all-time favorites, so of course I was gonna watch it.

“Man . . . I’m tired.” He stretched. “I’m gonna clean the kitchen and go to bed. You can stay up as long as you want, but when I say it’s time to get up in the morning, you better get up. Understand?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“I’m serious, Shawn, none of that ‘five more minutes’ nonsense, you hear?”

“All right, Dad, I’ll get up.”

“And clean up your mess before you go to bed.”

He shuffled into the kitchen, ran some water, clanged some plates, rattled some pans, and soon the light was off and he was shuffling off to his room. A “good night” and the door closed. I was alone with Bruce.

I threw my legs onto the couch and put the ice pack on my eye. The stinging was gone, but I still couldn’t see out of it so good. On-screen, Bruce broke bones and smashed limbs as my worn-out body was devoured by the couch. I pulled up my shirt to inspect the nasty purple welt on my stomach left courtesy of the cut-down club. It had the weirdest shape to it. Kind of like a half-moon stretched into a tiny island. A few more “WAA-TAA’s” and “KIYAI’s” from Bruce, and soon my eyelids were heavy and I was out. Hissing static opened them back up. I flipped the TV off and dragged myself to bed. Unlike at my house, my bed here is bigger and the sheets are newer. I just hope I don’t wake up to find them sticky.

“SHAWN, GET UP. Time to cut them raggedy naps.”

Awwww, man.

“What time is it?” I mumbled.

“Just after nine. I wanna get to the barbershop early so we don’t have to wait.”

I rolled over.

“Five more minutes, Dad. It’s Saturday.”

“What’d I say last night about that ‘five more minutes’ nonsense? I know it’s Saturday, but you’re not gonna laze the day away in bed.”

I groaned and pulled the sheets up.

“Come on, we’ll grab some donuts on the way.”

That got me up. I threw on my clothes and brushed my teeth, and we headed out. No sooner had I sat down in the car than Dad started sniffing the air.

“What is that smell?”

He sniffed over at me.

“Ughh! Boy, when was the last time you took a shower?”

I sniffed my underarms and, yeah, I was pretty ripe.

“I ’on’t know . . . a couple of days ago, I think.”

“A couple of days, Shawn? You gotta handle that funk. Ain’t no ladies gonna wanna talk to you smelling like that.”

He pointed at my head. “And look at your hair.”

I flipped down the visor mirror and saw that my fade had faded out.

“Speaking of ladies, you been talking to any?”

“Dad!”

“What? Come on, Shawn, you’re a teenager now. I was your age a long, long time ago, and that was all I could think about. You gonna tell me no girls have caught your eye?”

Dang! I knew I would have to tell him about Marisol sooner or later, but like Mama said when it came to me leaving Auntie’s, I didn’t think it’d be today.

“Well . . . there is this one girl. Her name is Marisol and . . .”

“And what? She got one leg, no arms, no lips . . .”

I laughed. “No, Dad, she’s Mexican.”

Why’d I say she was Mexican? He don’t care.

“Mexican? Is she cute?”

“Is she cute? What do you think? I do have good taste, you know.” I patted my chest with pride.

“You better. You are
my
son, after all. So tell me about her. Is she cute? Or is she fine?”

We had a rating scale when it came to describing women, and “fine” was a perfect ten. “Cute” was in the middle, and “all right” was down at the bottom with “has a nice personality.” Marisol was right at the top and, to me, off the charts.

“Oh, she’s fine . . . with a capital
F.
She’s got this really long hair and . . .”

Do I tell him about the butt? Nahh. Hold off on that. He’ll ask me about it, and I don’t feel like describing her butt to my Dad.

“She’s a little younger than me and a little shorter too. She’s got these big brown eyes, and her smile . . .”

Her smile popped into my head, glowing like yesterday’s pink sunset over the ocean, and warmed my face.

“Wait . . . she’s younger than you? How young?” He eyeballed me.

“Just a couple of months. Matter of fact, her birthday is coming up in a few weeks.”

He exhaled.

The ocean glittered beneath a bright blue sky as we made our way down the hill. The California breeze had the palm trees swaying, so I cracked my window open to let my funk out.

“So what’s going on with her? You talkin’ to her or you just admiring her from afar?”

He emphasized “afar” like a Shakespearean actor.

“Since school got out, I haven’t seen much of her, but when I do, we always talk.”

Should I tell him about the fellas embarrassing me in front of her? Or her showing me her butt?

“The fellas think she likes me too. They said she’s always standing real close and touching me when we talk.”

“Really? What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I know what I think of her, but I don’t know what she thinks of me. Ever since they said that, I been thinkin’ back to little things like that.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can to help you. But you gotta help yourself by taking better care of your appearance. You’re lucky me and your mother love you, because right now you don’t look like no child of mine.” He laughed and shook my head. “I’m just messing with you. But seriously, first thing we gotta do is take care of your nappy head.”

He laughed again as we wound our way to the donut shop. Half a dozen donuts and a slight stomachache later and we were at the barbershop: Smitty’s House of Style.

“Flash. Junior” greeted us as the bell clanged open to Smitty’s and announced our presence.

“Whooooaaa! Junior, what happened to you? That eye is so black, it looks like a hole!” Smitty said.

Shoot, my eye. I was able to see out of it much better than last night, so I almost forgot about it. Almost. There was no way I could forget about it now.

“He just got into a little scrape,” Dad said. His arm draped over my shoulder and he shook it.

All eyes focused on me. My eyes looked at the floor.

“A
little
scrape? Shoot! I’d hate to see a big one.” Lester chuckled, snipping his scissors in the air to clean the clumps of hair out of them.

Laughter from the barbershop congregation brought the room to life. All the usual suspects were here: Smitty, the owner and the most requested barber — a big barrel-chested man with a glowing bald dome; Lester, his skinny sidekick with a gray goatee and a short salt-and-pepper natural; and David, the youngest barber — a big fullback-looking brother with a close-cropped cut and an earring in his left ear. David had the nickname “Pretty Boy” because of that earring, whether he liked it or not. And seated on the sidelines, as always, heads waiting to be cut, some I’ve seen before mixed in with new ones. The older heads flipped through issues of
Ebony, Jet,
and
Sports Illustrated
as the TV shouted assorted animated sounds to the younger heads. I was the only teen in the shop. And the only one with a black eye.

“How long, Smitty?” Dad asked.

“You got three in front of you,” Pretty Boy said.

“Was he talking to you?” Smitty snapped.

Pretty Boy rolled his eyes and ran the clippers through the natural in front of him. We grabbed a pair of seats and waited for the barbershop talk to heat up. This was always my favorite part when it came to getting my hair cut — trash talk and street preaching from men of all shapes, sizes, and ages. This was the barbershop. I always listened and never spoke, like most of the youngsters, but Dad liked getting into it and wasn’t afraid to jump into the fire. Most of the guys had seen Dad’s pictures in the
L.A. Times;
that’s why they called him “Flash.” Sometimes they busted on him because of some of the assignments he got — ugly dogs, fat politicians, beauty queens — but they all showed him respect because he was doing what not too many people, let alone black men, were doing: making a living doing what he loved.

“So what’s the good word, Flash? You been taking pictures of any wars or stuff like that?” Lester asked.

“Nahh, I’m cutting back on all that traveling, Les. They got me doing a lot more local stuff. I wanna be around to see this one grow up.” He shook my head.

“Yeah, he’s growing all right. I bet he’s eating you out of house and home, huh?”

Why does every parent say that . . . house
and
home? Aren’t they the same thing?

“Oh, you know that. Don’t let his skinny legs fool you — the boy is a human garbage disposal.”

I crossed my arms and stuck my legs out. I hate when adults talk in front of me like I’m not even there.

“At least Junior is skinny. My grandson is about the same age, and he’s already bigger than me! I told his Mama she better get that boy on a football team or something and put that weight to work.”

An “I hear that” came out of nowhere, followed by “Y’all remember that one big kid who used to come in here? Had a lightning bolt scar on his forehead? What was his name? . . .”

And so it went. Names got recalled, stories retold, laughter bubbled from bellies, and “I hear that’s” were sprinkled throughout. All while scissors snipped and hair was clipped. It was sunny outside and there was noplace I would rather be. Everything was Kool and the Gang. Until . . .

“So how’d it happen?”

“Huh?”

“Your eye, Junior . . . how’d it happen?”

Smitty motioned his clippers toward his eye as he dusted off his freshly cut customer. I didn’t know what to say, so I looked at Dad. We spoke low, mouth to ear.

“Go ’head. Tell him.”

“The whole thing?”

“No, just how you were helping a friend.”

Why did I have to do that?

“Umm, I stepped in to help a friend”— I glanced at Dad —“who was getting beat up.”

There, I said it.

“Well, how ’bout that, Flash? Junior’s getting down with the get-down,” Smitty said with a hearty chuckle that got a laugh out of Dad.

“At least you was helping a friend. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Shoot, I know guys who got beat up because their ‘friends’ took off when they needed them, or set ’em up in the first place.”

“That ain’t no friend,” a voice chimed in.

“If that’s a friend, I’d rather have more enemies,” another added.

And so it went.

I sat up taller in my seat as my black eye made me the center of attention . . . in a good way. When I jumped in to help ’Zo, it felt like I was doing the right thing, but hearing these men, all of whom look like they’ve seen their fair share of scrapes over the years, say they would’ve done the same let me know I did do the right thing, even if Mama disagreed.

Smitty finished off another head and called me to his chair. Cool. I liked all of the barbers, but Smitty always hooked me up extra nice.

“You know what I’m gonna do for you, Junior? I’m giving you the special. I’ve had a few shiners in my life, and I know how it feels — it hurts like hell. Yeah, I’m a give you a little something that’ll make the girls look at you, not your eye.”